A competition win for Mr. Blewog?

I received a letter through the post today:

We are delighted to inform you that your entry has been selected to go through to the final stages of the Express Yourself competition.

You will receive 1st, 2nd or 3rd place and be presented your prize by the Heritage Minister and Ruth Jones at the Senedd on Thursday 25th of February.

So that’s exciting!

I suppose I should put the poem up now so here it is if you fancy a read:

All I See is Pages

Reclining in a coffee-shop-chair,
I’m reading The Times
Concealed behind a hefty thesaurus.
In the library, 2009 A.D.
The ones in the past,
The ones who had to walk and could not talk,
The ones who had to physically look,
To find
There was no comfort in those places of old,
The dust and must,
The shush and hush,
And  nobody could touch;
A keyboard,
Or a ‘Self-Service Check-Out & Renewal Facility.’
Reclining in a coffee-shop-chair,
I’m reading The Times
Concealed behind a hefty thesaurus.
I look up,
Towards the help desk horizon
And see a silhouette.
A Librarian.
All parts of this being are covered and hidden.
All I see is books.
All I see is books.
Although I know this surely is a person,
I cannot make out who this person is.
My mind wanders.
Mr. Arcimboldo told me from the pages of a pretty book,
In this room,
What ‘The Librarian’ would look like,
When I saw it.
But this being was not what Giuseppe said it would be,
“A collection of objects that forms a recognizable likeness of the portrait subject.”
This was a breathing
The soul of the library.
I visualize;
She’s a she.
I close my eyes and she appears vividly before me,
And her china hands turn the pages,
And her fingernails run across each bump of punctuated punctuation.
And her voice is beckoning me,
“Locate my letter”
She says,
“I want you to find my character,
Locate my volvic rune,
You know the letter;
F is on top and H is under,”
Spot the librarian,
In my daydream,
She is seductive, sensual, slinky, spicy, steamy and suggestive.
(Or so said the camouflage thesaurus.)
Wake up!
I arise to find myself in a sweet yet sweaty state.
And try to decipher reality.
All I see is books.
All I see is books.
I visualize once more;
But now;
He’s a he.
Standing tall and powerful;
A mighty protector,
A man without fear,
Ensuring order in the vicinity of book-town.
Silencing rowdiness whilst alphabetizing mightily.
As well as violently ensuring that any internet access is for research purposes only.
He is Conan;
Conan the Librarian.
Wake up!
Reclining in a coffee-shop-chair,
I’m reading The Times,
Concealed behind a hefty thesaurus.
In the library, 2009 A.D.
I view the silhouette once more,
It is coming.
It is coming.
I rise from hiding,
Have I been sensationalizing this unsurprising…
I bury my head in fear of disappointment as it’s shadow passes over me.
“Excuse me!”
It said.
“That Thesaurus was due back three weeks ago!”

Playwright McDonagh in Caravan Theft Scandal

The Anglo-Irish playwright, filmmaker, and screenwriter Martin McDonagh in a dramatic change of lifestyle in October 2007 was arrested for stealing caravans.

Full Story.

A mourning Mr. Neeson no longer set to star in Norman Stone epic

You may remember me expressing some interest in Christian film director Norman Stone (see here).

I have now heard from this source firstly the amazing news that Liam Neeson- talented actor -was set to play King Aidan, who apparently would have given him some ‘fiery clashes’ with Jeremy Irons. Secondly comes the sad news that he isn’t going to do the film even though he reportedly ‘loved the script’.

His wife did die last year, but I suspect this may be the film company using it as an excuse for not being able to get him. He’s been quite happy to work on Hollywood’s remake of ‘The A-Team’ so maybe my explanation is correct.

To round off, would anyone like to guess what Neeson and Irons actually have in common?


A Sportarifick Scientifilacious Test Subject… Moi?

My friend here at Aberystwyth is studying a Uni course thing what is known has ‘Sport Science’. Save your frustration fists fogies, I know it wasn’t a course in your day, but I bet a lot of you wish it was. It’s the perfect subject for the budding footballer who isn’t as thick as all the other lads and wants to get a degree, the guy who loved P.E. but hated the idea of becoming a brick-layer, like the rest of the squad, (apart from the keeper who always seems slightly more indie; what is it with goalies?)

Anyway, I got a call asking if I was able to help out with an experiment. I shuddered instinctively, as Ian Joy Division would have said. Now, I’m not the sportiliest of fellows and the thought of doing anything more than taking a walk from my bed to the fridge was quite frightening.

My first challenge was getting up the hill, after an extended Christmas holiday period where exercising at least four times a week is replaced with the violent capture and consumption of at least four Christmas puddings a day. That wonderful time of year when a quick jog becomes a yule log and a juicy slice of fruit mutates into a thick dollop of brandy butter. So I was slightly out of shape and was a lump of sticky cholesterol, wheezing like Muttley on spiked Lucozade by the time I made it to the top.

The entire Sport Science sector is currently being expanded so due to this construction, I couldn’t find the actual building. I quickly found myself next to a foreboding cement mixer when a builder who could’ve easily passed as a Keith Chegwin grabbed me by the elbow and escorted me to the correct room.

The department is sort of like a school crossed with a leisure centre. I assumed the swimming pool would be fitted with desks in the shallow end, along with walls covered in mathematically themed instructions; no diving (at a 45 degree angle), no running (with scissors) and no dunking (until you can find Pi).

I met Dan and he led me to the experimentation room. I was asked to fill in a form which basically meant I was signing to confirm to them that I wasn’t allowed to sue if I had a heart attack whilst mid exercise.

My task was set; all I had to do was sit on a larger than necessary bike and keep the speed on sixty revolutions per minute for as long as possible. “Oh yeah, by the way you should also know that every twelve seconds I’ll be putting significantly large kilogram weights on to this exercise machine which will make your task a bit harder.

I was then fitted with what looked like the Hulk’s watch, but was in fact something which measured my heart rate. Unfortunately this device was centred around the mood area pinching at the delicate chestial zone, it is most definitely not a device for the self conscious.

I got on the bike which has to be adjusted eight times higher for lankiness and I found myself pedalling away. I cheerfully chuckled through some humorous yet interesting calorie related patter, talking us through the positivity gained from the fact that frowns use more muscles than smiles as well as the sad truth that reading uses far more energy than watching television.

I asked Dan what this experiment was actually all about. Of course he couldn’t tell me, I quickly yet geekily replied with a squealed “Of course!” I went on to reassure him that I understood why and that the concept of the placebo effect was no stranger to me, and had he heard their song The Bitter End?

I must have been going for at least ten minutes by now, I look up at the clocky countdown timer thingy and it said a meer two minutes! I started to realise that as the weights piled on, this was going to be no easy ride (quite literally, guh huh). The claim that pedalling for over fifteen minutes was nearing Olympic potential was no joke. I hit the three minute mark and was starting to see blurry visages of Cornish pasties and McChicken Sandwiches. Dan’s encouragement (no doubt part of the confidential study) was ringing in my ears, but it made me feel worse about the fact I was being physically mugged by my own legs who not stop trying to step onto the floor but could not and just kept going on like that bit in Parklife about the joggers.

By this point I started to act very aggressively towards my eyebrows. I cursed them for not following through with their, their one function in life; (other than to give us something to laugh at Ronnie O’ Sullivan for) to keep sweat out of my eyes! It stings! Arrgh!

It was worse at the wedding because it made me look like I was crying and I most definitely was not… shedding any… well strictly… to be fair they weren’t really tears… you see what it looked like… hmm… well… you can’t prove it scientifically… they’re both just salty bodily liquids… oh come on! It’s an emotional day! Let me off man.

I’ve hit the six minute mark here! I feel like I no longer have legs, just KFC drumsticks attached to my hips and pounding at plastic peddles.

“I have to stop! Stop stop stop!”

“Alright, start to wind it down, slowly and let your leg muscles naturally come to rest.”

“Are you mad?” I took my feet off the pedals and got off the bike.

My legs felt on the one hand like they couldn’t walk and on the other, like they had been installed with springs, so I could now possibly jump into a nearby tree.

I quickly inhaled two cups of water and it sighed. It was over! I have to return at least two more times, under different conditions for further tests. Wow.

Things I’ve smashed this week. But don’t worry. Phew!

Broken hugging salt and pepper shakers

I never knew things could get so dramatic on the kitchen worktop. I know, white sliced bread! Unforgivable.

I’m sure you’ve seen these around, they’re very fashionable. I got them for Sibyl before everyone else was selling them in Britain. I saw them for sale in a French market in Nice! They are salt and pepper shakers! And they hug! And they’re faces are the holes you use to get the stuff out! And they are china! And they are Sibyl’s favourites! This was a truly sad occasion. However we were very fortunate to receive another pair for our wedding, from Tom. Phew!

Smashed wine glass


Getting these wine glasses from Sibyl’s cousin was probably the best thing about getting married. They are like fish bowls and they fit a whole wine bottle into one glass. Not that we’d want to do that. But this is the first of six to smash, thankfully this time I’m not in the froghouse because I was half way through a fairy sud filled session of washing up at the time. Phew!

Fitting song, no?

Just spent forty five minutes flicking through the blog…

I really appreciated having all that time last year, one of the cool things I got to do was post a ridunkyoolass amount of stuff on here. I only hope some of it will be of help, interest, enlightenment or entertainment to someone on the interwebs.

I’m posting a lot less now and spending less time on those posts. There was a time I would scour the weld wade wob for all sorts of oogly googly loveliness, but I won’t anymore. I’m not after that extra 200 views I got by putting up someone else’s picture of the moon and getting people to find it through an image search.

I entered another poetry competition today. I rewrote my twentieth birthday prose into poetic form and I liked it. I’ll post it along with the library one. I’m being lazy, sorry. It’s strange writing poems and writing generally because you can read over it and realise that this could just as easily be the worst piece of rubbish you’ve ever come across, or the greatest thing ever in the history of things. I have equal ability for self praise and self loathing, both of which are counter-productive.

We have storage heaters in our flat, which are these seemingly great inventions that save up heat in the night and blast it out in the day, because it’s cheaper in’t night time. Only at around two, it sucks all the moisture out of the bedroom and gives me and The Sibs sore throats. *Sob.*